Where She Left Him
by elwisty
Summary: How Sydney Bristow got married.


"We can do this."

"Absolutely."

"Yes."

They were planning their wedding. Vaughn had put an asterisk on the calendar by the fourth of March and scribbled next to it: _S & V – 0900 - plan wedding._ And now it was nine o' clock on the fourth of March. They were sitting at the breakfast bar. She had a pen and paper ready. Iza was chewing the ear off Bitbit the Giant Stuffed Rabbit. There was no reason why they couldn't get through the preliminaries in ten minutes and then go for a drive to unwind afterwards.

"So…"

"Hm."

"We could put this off for another two years."

"No." Vaughn drew in his lips. "It's now or never."

"Never?"

"Now. Who do you want to invite?"

"Well, there's Dixon, Director Chase, Marshall, Carrie, Will, Rachel and Weiss, obviously…" she had run out of names. "That's seven people." She wrote them down. "What about you?"

"Mitchell. And Iza."

"Do they need invitations?"

"No. But Iza will need someone to stop her jumping on the cake. If we have a cake."

"Do you want one?"

"I don't know. Do you?" This was why their attempts at wedding planning never achieved anything. Other couples seemed to enjoy the process of working out what would happen and who to invite and who to lock in the kitchen. In contrast, they found themselves spiralling into a stalemate of courteous indifference. She could see that Vaughn knew she didn't want a cake or a big white dress or a huge reception, but he was too polite to say so and, since she thought he might want a traditional wedding, she couldn't reject it outright.

"Do we really only know seven people – I mean, grown-ups?" she said, reverting to the original subject.

Vaughn paused, considering. "Yes," he said eventually. "Know well, anyway. If you want a big party, we could always round up the remains –" he quickly corrected himself "- the _rest _of A.P.O. and get Dixon and Chase to invite everyone they're friends with from the Agency."

"That could work. I was worried we'd have to invite Sark to fill out the numbers." She felt as if she was only half joking.

"He may turn up whether we invite him or not."

"So I'll keep a shotgun handy." They shared a grin.

"What about Katya?" Katya had been released from custody and returned to Russia, where she was said to be resident in a secure mental institution. Sydney had neither seen her nor spoken to her for two years and was not inclined to, for all that she was the last survivor of the Derevko sisters.

A ripping noise alerted them to Iza's successful de-auration of Bitbit. This was immediately followed by loud wailing, as the toddler looked upon what she had wrought, and was not pleased.

Sydney rushed over to comfort her, but was beaten to it by Vaughn, who swept the little girl up in his arms and began to do the chicken dance around the room. She had once tried to describe the chicken dance to Rachel, but given up. Words simply weren't sufficient.

"The car?" she asked, once the sobs had turned into giggles.

"You get the keys. I'll get the food and the brat-pack."

That night she knew even before she rested her head on the pillow that she wouldn't sleep well. She was feeling headachy and restless, even though it was already gone twelve. Vaughn's soft, regular breathing from the other side of the bed relaxed her. By half past, she was drowsy and, when she suddenly found herself standing in a shop full of paper flowers and ruffles of white lace, she merely thought: _Good. This means I'm asleep_. She would dream a little, and then wake up with the sun shining through the skylight, and it would be her turn to make breakfast for Vaughn and Iza.

"Hello, Sydney." Katya appeared next to her. She was dressed disconcertingly like a soccer mom in a Nike jacket, jogging bottoms and white sneakers. Her hair was cut as fiercely short as ever. "So you could not put it off any longer?"

She felt herself frown. "I never put if off. I've never been so sure of anything in my life as I am about marrying him. I love him, auntie."

Katya shrugged. "Well, if you really want to get married tomorrow, you will need something nice to wear. Unless you mean to walk down the aisle in _that_."

Sydney looked down. She was still in her Dennis the Menace nightgown. It was lucky that this was a dream. You should always deal with people like Katya from a position of strength. A Dennis the Menace nightgown was not, by definition, a position of strength. "Maybe that dress?" she said, pointing to a thin white slip on a dummy, the clean lines of which at least appealed to her sense of tidiness.

"Oh no," Katya replied, chuckling with the throaty Derevko chuckle. "That is not for weddings. You do not want that yet." She put her hand on one of the shop walls. It slid back. "Look at these."

The wall had concealed a huge closet. From end to end, it was packed with hundreds of different costumes: ball-gowns, miniskirts, tank-tops, sensible shoes, five inch stilettos, jeans, jerseys, thigh-high leather boots and more. A glint of red caught her eye. She moved closer. It was a red wig. On the same hanger were the clothes she had worn when she walked into Langley over six years ago. Nearby, she found the trouser suit she'd worn to briefings at SD6. Something began bleeping, not loudly, but steadily. She felt inside the jacket pocket, and drew out the pager she had once thrown into the sea in the multi-coloured glow of the Ferris wheel.

"You're just a dream," she told it. The bleeping stopped. After replacing the pager, she moved along the ranks of costumes. Silk dresses, satin gloves, leather pants and studded anklets… At the far end, the final hanger supported a pair of dark jeans, a green blouse and a wig made of long brown hair. The jeans were stained with ridges of salt, because yesterday, while paddling in the sea with Iza, she'd been caught unawares by a large roller and soaked almost to her waist.

"Have you decided?"

"I could wear anything?"

"Naturally. They are all yours."

She looked down at Dennis the Menace. In comparison to the thing with the whip and the metal g-string, he really wasn't so bad. "I'll stay as I am, thanks."

Katya smiled and tilted her head to the side. "Sweet. Your fiancé is a lucky man. You are as faithful as your father. But what about Nadia?"

"What?" She felt cold, despite the warmth of the shop that she equated to the warmth of the bedclothes. Most probably, she had caught some kind of chill from one of the people on the beach. She hoped she hadn't given it to Iza. "I don't understand…"

"She should have something pretty to wear. You do not want your maid of honour to wear a sack, do you?"

"No…" The doorbell rang. The door was like the one she remembered from her parents' house: five sheets of clouded glass held in a shining white frame. Behind the door she could see a shadow moving.

"That must be her. I told her to come today to be measured for her dress." Katya walked quickly and confidently across the shop floor and put her hand on the latch.

"Aunt Katya, _don't_." Sydney knew that she was desperate for the door to stay closed. Whatever it might be that was standing outside, she didn't want to see it. Stowed in the pocket of her old suit jacket, the pager renewed its bleeping, but, seeing her fear, Katya merely shot her a quizzical look and pulled down the latch.

And Sydney opened her eyes. Light from the morning sun was striking the white sheets, as if they were the snows on the peak of Mount Subasio. A hollow on the other side of the mattress informed her that Vaughan was already up and about, as did the mug of coffee that sat steaming gently on her bedside table.

"Thank you!" she called. A muffled, "You're welcome!" came from the bathroom, where the taps were running. For a while, she just stretched across the bed, enjoying the luxury of the extra space. Now that she was awake, her previous terror shrank and faded and became something far away and unimportant.

At last, she rolled off the bed. "I'll get breakfast!" she called through the bathroom door. Water was still splashing into the tub.

She padded barefoot down the cool wooden stairs. Apart from the running water, the house was silent. Once in the kitchen, without needing to think about what she was doing, she opened the cupboards and brought out the cereal, the bowls, the fruit juice, the glasses and the spoons and laid them on the table. At the fridge, she poured the milk from its plastic container into a glass jar. It was only as she was carrying the jar to the table that she looked out of the window. Carefully, she put down the milk.

Outside it was a beautiful morning. The sky was a pale blue and a puff of wind was blowing just strongly enough to make the chrysanthemums and tulips wave their heads. And on the lawn, eighteen chairs had been carefully placed to create an aisle that led up to a wickerwork arch, interwoven with white roses. Half the chairs were as yet unoccupied.

One of those present on the lawn turned her head. It was Rachel. Seeing Sydney at the window, she grinned and beckoned to her. The other people also turned, and also began smiling and beckoning. Dixon, Chase, Carrie, Marshall, Weiss and even Will. On the far side of the lawn, she spied Mitchell playing with a football and – her heart jumped to her mouth – Iza too was there, examining stones on the gravel path.

As she opened the garden door, the wind rushed in. It was colder than she had expected. It cut right through her gown, darting through every tiny hole in the worn cotton like a thousand cold fingers pressing against her skin. She wished she hadn't left her bathrobe and slippers upstairs.

"Hey, Syd," Dixon called. "Glad you made it. We were beginning to think you'd miss your own wedding."

"It's the bride's privilege to be late," remarked Will.

"You're all – here?" Sydney looked at the smiling faces on her left, then turned to those on her right. Katya nodded to her. This time she was dressed in uniform, as she had been when they first met. "How long have you been waiting?"

"Not that long," said Rachel.

"Only six years," said Will.

She turned away from them and walked towards the arch. It had been beautifully made; the slender branches had been twisted into whirls, like hundreds of conch shells lying side by side. She brushed one of the roses with her little finger. It felt real. Bending closer, she inhaled the perfume.

"I know you said you hated the idea of a big white gown," said a voice behind her. "But I didn't know you meant that so seriously." She froze. She felt something warm touch her arm. She looked down, and saw a slender hand resting near her elbow.

"Nadia?"

"Hi, Syd. You said I should be maid of honour. You haven't changed your mind?" asked the voice, sounding genuinely worried that there might have been a misunderstanding.

"Of course not." She turned and looked at her sister. At the dark eyes, the white slip, the unhappy smile and the hole in her neck. "I could never change my mind about that. Ever."

"I'm so glad."

"The dress is beautiful. You're beautiful."

"Not anymore," said Nadia, and, having pressed her arm affectionately once more, departed to take a seat on the front row. There were more people now. Emily was there, and Renee, and Noah, and Francie. Beatrice appeared and silently walked across the lawn to sit on Dixon's right.

Wrapping her arms round herself to keep out the horrible wind, Sydney watched and waited, until only three chairs remained unclaimed. "I'm so cold," she said to Emily, trying to see only the face and not the exit wound at the side of the face. The older woman was fiddling absently with the small microphone that had been taped to her chest.

"I'm so sorry, Sydney. But they'll be here soon. Then we can start."

"Syd," Marshall called. "Iza."

He pointed.

At the edge of the garden, where the gravel path met the drive, Iza had built a small pyramid of stones. That was typically precocious of her. Also typical of her was her next move, which was to take a handful of pebbles from the top and move them determinedly towards her open mouth.

A line of grey cloud was advancing across the sky. The lawn fell into shadow. Sydney knew that she should stop her daughter, but she was numb with cold: she felt unable to do anything. Her head was pounding now. She screwed up her eyes and pressed her palms against her temples, willing the burning heat echoing inside her skull to flow out into the freezing air.

When she opened her eyes, it was to see Iza's tiny mouth turn into an O of surprise as she was lifted from the ground by a khaki-covered arm. Sydney saw her father wince and briefly clasp his chest with his free hand, standing as she would always remember his stand, before he smiled and began to pry the stones from Iza's stubborn fingers. Sloane hovered next to him: his jacket was brown with dried blood.

"Dad?"

"The flight was delayed," her father said, glancing up from the toddler fidgeting in his arms. "A typhoon in the Yellow Sea."

"Dad, where's Vaughn?"

He exchanged a look with Sloane; it was the latter who answered, tilting his head to the side and blinking in mock bewilderment. "I expect he's where you left him, Sydney."

Slowly, they walked away from her, and each took his place. There was only one chair empty now. She knew whom it belonged to and she knew where Vaughn was.

First walking, she went back into the house. As she crossed the kitchen tiles, she began to jog and, at the stairs, she ran.

The bathroom door was still closed. She rested her ear against its smooth pinewood surface. There was nothing.

"Vaughn?" she called softly. Still nothing. Louder: "Vaughn!"

_Plink. _It was on the other side of the door.Water. Dripping from a tap. _Plink. Plink._

"Aren't you going to go in?" The whisper breathed across her cheek.

"Where are you?"

"Watching. Like I promised I would."

"I don't want to – I don't want to go in there."

"Don't you want to know what's inside?"

"I know what's inside. I've been here before."

"It doesn't have to be the same."

"It's always the same." She rested her head on the frame, just for a moment. And then she wrenched open the door. And she entered the room and walked up to the bath. And it was the same. Like it always was.

And Sydney woke up. The sun was shining through the skylight. He was asleep next to her, breathing steadily and gently; it was her turn to make breakfast for Vaughn and Iza.

Thirty minutes later, they were on the freeway heading north-west. Forty minutes later, they were at the registry office. One hour later, they were married, and Iza was lost in a chocolate trifle.

"Better than a big white wedding?" asked Vaughn.

"Much, much better," she replied. She cupped his cheek, while he smiled. "Now – do you want to get a pizza, or go bowling?"


End file.
